


SIDETRACKED

by breezyArtii2an



Series: Strider Jams [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Bitterness Against Thanksgiving, Comfort, Dirk go to bed, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Guys in a band, Holidays, Introspection, Love and All Its Nuances, Making breakfast at strange hours, Male Friendship, Strider Manpain, seriously
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-28
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-03-15 15:05:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3451589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breezyArtii2an/pseuds/breezyArtii2an
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not every day is noteworthy.  Sometimes there are in-betweens, sometimes there is lethargy. </p><p>This is the Side B to the shenanigans in the Strider Sound Box.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dirk and Jane

**Author's Note:**

> ehehe.  
> This is my excuse to posting again.  
> Mostly I need to write to get back into the habit of writing for these characters. And I miss Dirk/Jane. 
> 
> These'll be mostly one-shots and drabbles and the occasional flashback to add onto the world of Strider Jams.

It’s dusk when she arrives at Walkman. She’d meant to come earlier, given her shift had ended at four, but by the time she’d gotten all cleaned up and put dinner in the oven, the last red rays of sunset were reaching like tendrils into the purple skies. She shivered. It was growing colder, more brisk in the mornings and evenings. 

Jane wondered briefly what to bake Dave for his birthday, then shook her head, considering just how many birthdays were in December. Dave, and Rose, and Jade, and of course Dirk… So many cakes to bake! 

She sighs and takes a deep breath of the crisp evening air. The jingling bells announce her entrance as she opens the door. The temperature in Walkman is hot, almost muggy—Dirk likes to keep things warm, always. It probably has something to do with living in Texas for so many years. She takes off her coat and sets it on the counter, then hops up next to it. 

He’s in deep thought. There’s a half-stringed guitar in his lap and his hands seemed to have stopped mid-motion—half twisted onto the bridge, he fiddles with the string. His shades are on his head, and his eyes are far off, glassed over. 

“Dirk?” Jane asks quietly.

He blinks, and for a second Jane can almost see the gears in his head whirring and turning as he tries to restart, so to speak. He turns his head to her, then blinks again. And finally, it clicks. 

“Jane.” He says as way of greeting. Then suddenly, his brows furrow and he checks the old ticking wall clock behind him. “Hell. It’s already almost seven?”

“Sorry. I meant to come sooner.” Jane apologizes, but he waves off the statement. 

“Nah. It’s cool. Time just got away from me.” He sets the guitar down, but not before running his fingers over the strings again.

“Do you want to stop and finish that first?” Jane asks. Dirk is destructive when his hands are idle. In the wake of Cal’s death, she knows that keeping Dirk busy is for his own good. It’s not much, but she’s doing all she can to keep him from wrinkling early under his many stresses. 

“No, it’s okay. It can wait until tomorrow.”  
Dirk goes through the now-familiar, arduous task of closing up shop for the night. 

“It’s just us tonight.” Jane states as casually as possible as Dirk puts the day’s funds in a locked safe behind a framed picture on the wall. (It hadn’t been his idea, he’d explained defensively once. It had been Cal’s installment. If Dirk had replaced the safe with a more technologically efficient one, Jane didn’t comment.) 

“Little bro’s out?” Dirk asks, confirming, matching Jane’s casualty. 

“He and John decided to, as Dave said, take some “Bro-Time” with Karkat. The three of them will be at my dad’s for the evening.” She replies. “I made dinner.” 

Dirk smiles and takes her hand. 

Dinner’s a simple casserole, dessert a slice of apple pie (the Striders’ favorite, she’d realized quickly a night prior) with a side of vanilla ice cream. They sit together on the couch, legs intertwined, Jane’s head on Dirk’s shoulder, the TV set providing white noise for their relaxing evening in. She and Dirk had never been much for extravagant fanfare. Intimacy was always more important. 

Knowing each other, and responding to the other’s needs was always more important.

Dirk is a ball of tension. He sits a little stiffly. He doesn’t dig into his pie with as much relish as he normally does. He has that same far-off look that he’d had back in Walkman. 

She sets her empty plate on the coffee table and takes one of his hands into both of hers. 

“Dirk,” she murmurs. He looks at her, orange eyes twinkling with fondness. 

“What’s up, Jane?” 

She leans over and kisses him.

“I love you.” She declares plainly, smiling. Because the phrase never fails to make him blush and his eyes brighten, even for a moment. As much as he loathes to admit it, the man is a complete sap in private.

“Phone the presses, we’ve got a new headline. “Local baker declares love for strapping young entrepreneur. Wedding to be announced! See page nine.” Every street corner will have a little boy screaming the headline to the unfortunate passerby.” He rambles, finishing with a charmingly crooked smile. Jane laughs, unable to resist the man’s ridiculous humor. He continues, “They’ll eat it all up, Jane. Especially when the other paper across town reads “Man announces love for ex-heiress via sick beats and ill rhymes.” The illest of rhymes, Jane.” His chuckle is breathy. 

“The illest,” Jane agrees, kissing the corner of his lips. She shifts a bit to rub some of the tension from his shoulders. He slumps a little, as if Jane’s touch was the only thing that can ease the weight of the world from his shoulders. 

Later, late at night, when her head is pressed against his chest and his arms are around her and all that they know is the cotton sheets and fleece comforter and each other’s skin, he kisses her forehead. 

“I love you too, if that wasn’t clear.” Dirk murmurs lowly. 

“I know, you ridiculous man.”


	2. shakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His hands are shaking.  
> The nicotine and the caffeine are by no means good for his health, but he can't bring himself to quit his vices. The combination of the chemicals give him the shakes, yet even so, habits are hard to break, especially after years of living with them. Tonight he can't sleep, can't work with the trembling in his hands, and he doesn't know what to do. 
> 
> Then there's Jane. There's always Jane to steady his hands and clear his mind.

3 am.

  
Dirk Strider knows he shouldn’t be awake at this hour. He’d learned that lesson years ago—between hearing “monsters” late at night as a child, on the days when his father wasn't deployed in some foreign country or working with some military intelligence bigshot, seeing a shit-faced Bro stumble into the house and collapse on the couch in the early morning as a teen, and knowing what his own wandering mind and hands could create in the hours on the wrong side of midnight, Dirk knows that sometimes, it’s easier to do what Dave does and sleep through all the shit that happens when the night falls. After all, nothing good happens after 1 AM, in Dirk’s experience.

 

Well, he considers, his eyes falling on the hallway leading to his bedroom, there are some exceptions to that.

 

He cracks his knuckles and pulls off his leather gloves. His hands are sweaty from the constricting material and goddamnit, he can’t work with them on. It’s 3 AM and he can’t sleep, and his hands are trembling from the ill-advised amount of coffee he’s had and the even moreso ill-advised amount of cigarettes he’s smoked in last three hours, and his mind just won’t quiet long enough for him to actually string a sensical thought together—

 

Breathe in. Eight counts. Breathe out.

 

Dirk sighs deeply. He’s getting annoyed now, partly with the insomnia and the trembling and the addictions and mostly the sampler/turntable in front of him that for some reason, does not want to work. But no matter what he does he can’t seem to focus on the piece of hardware, and he can’t even pawn the work off to Equius because this is for Dave, he doesn’t want anyone else to work on this special present for his little brother. Kid’s had it rough, what with Bro dipping and Rose moving out and his best friend moving away, and even if Karkat’s been around to keep him distracted, it’s not like Dave can just not feel anything over the fact that three of the most important people to him left when Mom’s in rehab and Dad’s God-knows-where for half the day, and Lil Cal isn’t around to take care of them anymore. Plus, Dirk considers as he adjusts the placement of a wire, Dirk himself hasn’t exactly been supportive of Dave lately either—kid’s been on his own, which is terrifying thing in this modern day at seventeen. At the very least, he can get his brother to smile on his birthday.

 

If his damned hands don’t get in the way.

 

Dirk doesn’t know what’s wrong. He’s been spaced out and temperamental lately and only Jane’s been able to put up with him.   He’s heard whispers between Rose and Jane, about “grief” and “coping” and more often than before Rose has been trying to lure him into conversations that are thinly veiled attempts at picking his brain. He’s smart enough to read between the lines, so he wonders if maybe they’re right, or maybe he’s just tweaking out lately. He calculates the probability.

 

He throws the pliers across the room.

 

“Ouch!” A feminine voice gasps and a pit drops in Dirk’s stomach.

 

Jane’s leaning against the doorframe of the hallway, clutching her chin and squinting at it in the dim lamplight.

 

“Well, that’s certainly going to bruise, buster.” She tells him, standing gingerly and tossing him an unimpressed look. He looks down to the interface on the table, unable to meet her eyes.

 

“I’m sorry.” He mumbles.

 

“It’s all right, love.” She assures him, putting her arms around him from behind. He tilts his head to rest against the back of the chair, and she’s looking down fondly at him with her big blue eyes. He can feel the tension in his jaw relax as she rubs small circles onto his temples. He slumps a little, feeling the edge of a headache he didn’t realize he had ebb away slightly

 

“Why are you awake?” Dirk asks.

 

“Why are you?” She shoots back, and Dirk chuckles.

 

“Touche, Crocker.”

 

Dirk pats the spot on the couch next to him, and Jane shuffles over to plop down with him. The couch may be far from new, but it’s still plush and soft and ten kinds of comfortable. If he was in the mood Dirk could certainly wax poetic about this couch. Then Jane cuddles into his side and Dirk suddenly doesn’t want to entertain any thoughts about ironic tangents about couches and plushness and cushioned asses, or whatever he’d been thinking out before Jane came out.

 

“Is that the turntable you were talking about?” Jane asks softly, sleepily, and Dirk really wonders why she’s awake, because she’s the type of gal who goes to bed at ten and rises at seven, and ever since she moved in, he’s been doing kind of the same for the most part.

 

“Yeah, it is. Or at least part of it. The other half is waiting to be picked up at Eq’s workshop.” He explains. It’s a complex piece of work that he thinks will take him a better part of the month to complete. Ordinarily it would take him two weeks to do a job like this, but he’s got to consider Walkman and Mom and Dad coming back for Thanksgiving. He wonders if Jane plans to go home for that. Would she want him there for that too? Is she a Black Friday shopper? He isn’t overly fond of the idea of waking up at 3 am to go to the local mall but somehow he really doesn’t like the idea of Jane going alone. Or even with Rose or Jade or Feferi or—really, any of them, because those girls get tunnel vision and people like to get violent at those sales racks. Jane can handle herself, yeah, but—

 

“Dirk.” Jane is looking up at him with a quirked brow.

 

“Ah… Yeah, Crockpot?” He asks, feeling his cheeks heat up.

 

“I said, why don’t you go to bed? Come back to it with a fresh mind tomorrow. Knowing you, you’ve probably calculated some variables and probabilities and gave yourself more than enough time to complete this for Dave’s birthday.” She reasoned.

 

Dirk stares at her. “I can’t sleep,” he states, then mentally curses the way it sounds like a five-year-old mumbling to his mother.

 

“Well, all right! I know—how about we get some food in you? You probably can’t think with an empty stomach! Come on, up you get.”

           

Next thing he knows, Jane’s dragging him to the kitchen and tying one of her frilliest aprons on him. She laughs at the dumbfounded look on his face and she’s handing him eggs, mixing bowls, whisks, ordering him to crack this, mix that, pour this, telling him “no, Dirk, you’re not allowed to lick the spoon I’m not done with it.” And he sits on the counter while she flips pancakes in the pan and some chocolate chip muffins bake in the oven. He looks down, and his hands have steadied with the menial tasks she’s given him.

 

And as 3 am turns 4, and 4 turns to 5, Dirk and Jane sit down to a full spread of muffins, pancakes, sausages and eggs, and as Jane pours him a glass of orange juice, he points out, “You didn’t have to do all this just for me.”

 

“I admit,” she laughs, “I needed this too. I didn’t eat much yesterday, and you certainly needed a distraction.”

 

“Well…” Dirk bites into one syrupy pancake and considers the taste, how it is superior in every way to any box mix that his parents used to use. “Thanks, Jane.”

 

She smiles and nudges his foot with hers under the table. “You’re welcome, Strider. Always glad to be of service.”

 

When their meal is done, Jane goes back to bed and Dirk tries to get back to work. Things make a considerable amount more sense now, and his mind seems unclouded and he feels less jittery. His hands are steady and the dull throbbing in his temple has softened to a much more manageable state. He considers all this after he works for an hour or so more, and moves it all back to the spare room it’d been hiding in.

 

People tell him he’s so mature, independent, people compliment him on holding his family together. But when he considers how Jane reminds him to take care of himself, and do simple things like eat, rest, take a break, basic functions that one would think an adult could do—he suddenly feels like a little kid compared to her.

 

There’s always the clouds and storms and ambient noise in his head, the whispering thoughts and evil things that keep him awake. There’s always the buzzing of ideas and blueprints, always the looming presence of bills, always the ever-present worry over his mother, his siblings. There’s a lot of things in separate, ever-filling folders in his head that take up real estate he could be using on his thoughts, but these constant stressors squat in the back of his head constantly and keep him up late at night drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes. And then there’s Jane. There’s always Jane to steady his hands and clear his mind.

 

Around 7 he finally shuffles to take a nap in his bed, and just as he falls into the sweet embrace of the comforter, he hears Dave ask Jane, “Just why did you guys get up so early to make all these damn pancakes?” and he chuckles to himself before he falls asleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been anxious lately and I decided to experiment a bit with Dirk. Don't worry--Strider Jams and Sidetracked are most certainly not dead. I'm an art major so I just don't have enough time to write as much as I would like.


	3. gratitude (I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jane, Dirk, and Dave reflect on things they are thankful for as Thanksgiving approaches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this while back in early November, polished it off and blew off the dust today in celebration of Chapter 3 of Strider Jams. The first in a series!

_jane_

Jane is picking through her great grandmother’s recipe book, looking for a good guide for pumpkin pie, when she realizes that it is indeed Thanksgiving season. 

 

She considers all that has happened in the past few years—all the time she spent under Betty Crocker’s thumb, her ill-advised and ill-fated relationship with Gamzee, Cal’s death, helping Dirk, and all of the crazy, zany experiences she has had ever since returning home to where she belongs.  Not all of that time has been great, she thinks, quickly writing down the ingredients she needs to buy at the store, but she believes that it has all been worth it.

 

She’s grateful for a lot of things—all the friends she’s made thanks to Dirk and Dave and Gamzee and Kanaya, for even when they are tiring to be around and even when the playful vitriol is not in good taste, she loves her friends for being who they are and including her into their circle.  She’s grateful for Dirk, that stupid man, a veritable genius in truth but when she thinks of him she’s not sure whether she wants to sigh or kiss his forehead.  He’s the best person she could have asked for, and she wonders how exactly to express to him how much she appreciates him.  She’s grateful for her father for accepting her choices as an adult woman, for loving her as she is and not trying to mold her into someone she does not want to be.  She’s grateful for John, because they have changed a lot the past few years apart, and he does not resent the days when she cannot bring herself to settle into their old routines. 

 

She missed a lot when she was gone, but now that she is home, she has a lot to be thankful for.  She jots down a note to herself to express that sentiment as much as possible when it comes down to the day.

* * *

 

_dirk_

 

When Dirk thinks of Thanksgiving, he has mixed feelings.  As a kid, back when Roxy was sober, he remembers some damn good holidays.  Cal could bake one mean turkey, Roxy’s side dishes could lead to true chaos when it came to the last bite, and Hal, on the times he was home, Hal always tried to be good to his family.  Sometimes Hal’s brothers would come—Sakari and Sawyer were a real hoot to have around, especially once all the adults had some drinks and were challenging each other to rap battles.  Sometimes, Uncle D would come too.  He’s a director, Dirk remembers, and he’s always admired his uncle D.  That admiration is why, for a while, he was going by D-Stri—Jane still calls him the nickname to date, though mostly, he thinks, it’s for ironic reasons, though Jane most certainly wouldn’t dub it that unless in jest.

 

It’s odd to think about his strange family—on the surface they seem like the typical all-American troupe but Dirk feels they are anything but.  The holidays are going to be different this time—no Cal, no Bro, and Dirk isn’t sure how to get a hold of any of his uncles these days—that was always Roxy contacting them and he’s too prideful to call his mom and ask for help.  He hums thoughtfully—the holidays might just be him, Dave, Roxy and Rose this time.  It’ll be different.  It’ll be odd.  But he thinks he might prefer it that way.

 

He knows how to talk to Dave and Rose.  They might be brats sometimes, but hell, they’re his lil bro and sis and nothing will change that.  They’ve been through thick and thin, stuck through it, and when they had nothing and Bro was never around, they had each other at least.  So when he’s being sarcastic, when he’s being deadpan, when he’s all around being a shit, his siblings know how to take that.

 

His mother, meanwhile, for all her flaws, is his mother.  He loves and adores her, as every reasonable child loves a semi-reasonable mother.  He tones his shit down for her, just so she doesn’t worry, and he tries to help her out whenever he can.  Her job is hard, with all the coding and hacking she does in addition to her private lab experiments into DNA and genetics—that job is how she met Hal.  And even if she fell off the wagon when Cal got sick, well, he couldn’t blame her.  He’ll be glad to have her home finally—he won’t admit it aloud but he’s missed her.  And she understands him much better than he gives her credit for, he bets.

 

But his dad, Bro, and his uncles—Dirk doesn’t know how to talk to them anymore.  After Cal died, and all the shit he’s been through—he’s a much different guy than the stupid anime-obsessed teen they’d teased a few years ago.  Dirk’s grown up and he’s not sure how to reconcile that with the fact that he’s sewing a bulbous nose on a felt puppet.  He sets the smuppet down and sips the beer he’d set aside. 

 

Now that Cal is gone, he thinks how odd holidays are going to feel without him.  But he thinks of his siblings, of Jane and John and Karkat and Kanaya, and he believes that the Strider Clan will be just fine.

* * *

 

_dave, karkat, john_

Karkat’s playing guitar and John is at the piano, and Dave has been going back and forth from his turntables to the drumkit beside them for the past hour. 

 

“Hey, why don’t we play a Christmas song? It’s almost that time of year.” John suggests, thumbing through his binder of eclectic music choices. 

 

“Because it’s fucking November, you blasphemous moron.”  Karkat snarled back, throwing his pick at Egbert’s head.  “NO, Egbert, you turn that damn page, I dare you.  Don’t think I didn’t see Deck the Halls there, I’ll fucking deck you so hard if you start—“

“Woah, Karkat, I already told you, I am not a homosexual!” John laughed, eyes twinkling.  Dave snickered at them. 

 

These were his two best bros, hanging out.  It’s great to see. 

 

“I’m gonna have to agree with Karkat, Johnny boy.  It is just downright heathenry if we play Christmas songs before Thanksgiving.  It ain’t Christmas till I start wearing those fugly ass sweaters, have I taught you nothing?”  He snarked, twirling one of his drumsticks in hand.  “Besides, John, come on.  What sick beats can I play to a Christmas song, unless it’s Mariah Carey’s classic All I Want For Christmas Is You?” 

 

John snorted, his grin splitting his cheeks and his mirth infectious.  Dave hid a chuckle as a cool cough as John retorted, “How could I forget, when we play that Mariah Carey classic _every year_!”

 

“She didn’t even WRITE that song!  She’s taking credit for an over-hyped classic!”  Karkat exclaimed.  Dave ignored him and decided to cut him off before the guy turned purple with his long-winded rants again.

 

“… Anyway, what the fuck.  Let’s write a song about Thanksgiving.”

 

“Shit, Dave.  Really?”  Karkat sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, and Dave realized that he better sit tight, there’s a storm coming, negative Ghost Rider you are not clear for lift off, better nut up or shut up while you still can.  He shot John a look in the effort of communicating this, as Karkat took a deep breath and let loose like Dave knew he was born to do over any topic that he could get a word in.

 

“Like there’s not much material to write about, other than hyper-masculine idiots beating each other up over a vaguely phallic piece of sporting equipment, or stifling your blasphemous, liberal opinions for your weak-hearted bigoted grandparents at the dining receptacle lest you give the poor, wrinkly, feeble bastards a heart attack, as if the fire-blasted dinner fowl and the overly rich side dressings wouldn’t do the job for you, and of course how could I forget the asinine activities that this great country has now forever associated with this godforsaken holiday that shits on the Native Americans it is supposedly based in honor of, like, oh, that glorious parade that Macy’s insists on with their overblown balloons at preening street acts, and the violent, gladiator battles we call shopping in the name of Black Friday shopping sales, because holy shit, we’d rather get our arms ripped out of the socket for a fucking blender than spend a damn holiday with the extended family that we somehow keep forgetting that we hate.” 

 

Dave raised an eyebrow. “Damn, Kat, I didn’t know you were so fucking bent out of shape over Thanksgiving.  Like, I know my family ain’t as peachy as the Egbert-Crockers and it looks like we’ve got “We have issues, we are so fucked up!” advertised in big neon lights flashin’ from a mile away, but holy fuck, Karkat, even a Strider family gathering is a peaceful affair that I have some fond memories over.” He peered at his friend over his glasses.  Karkat’s skin flushed a little.

 

“Family holidays aren’t ever very happy with my family,” he mumbled, “the only good thing that ever came of it is I got to see my grandmother and Kanaya.”  He got quiet, and Dave considered him for a few heartbeats.

 

“A’ight, Kat,” he announced, “this holiday season, me and Egbert are gonna show you the true meaning of Thanksgiving and shit, be ready to shout “Gobble gobble, motherfuckers!” at the top of your lungs because you’re gonna love Thanksgiving so much when we’re through with you.”  Dave nodded to himself again, tapping a cymbal with a drumstick to emphasize his point.

 

“That’s an awesome idea, Dave!  Jade will be excited when I tell her, Karkat, you will love her pumpkin pies.  Oh, and Jane’s cooking will make you never want to leave.”  John’s grin was toothy as hell.  Dave thought of when they were kids, and John had those dorky as braces, or just in the past couple years, when he had that retainer that he kept misplacing.  He smirked at the thought.

 

“Yeah, man, you’ll witness some tight ass epic rap battles with my family, and my mama’s candied yams are a perfection too good for this world, with one taste, you will instantly burst into tears and claim yourself a religious man.  Shit’ll be whack as hell.”  He added. 

 

Karkat’s expression was conflicted, stormy, and finally he settled with a resigned sigh.

 

“… Yeah, all right,” he mumbled, uncharacteristically passive, “I’ll go to your stupid white man’s holiday.  Kanaya’s probably gonna be spending it with Rose anyway.” He looked uncomfortable, and he avoided Dave’s eyes, but he was trying, and Dave could respect anybody that decided to go out of their comfort zone.  He slid his shades back on and looked out to the window, to the changing leaves of the big oak tree in Egbert’s yard.  John and Karkat babbled in the background, and Dave tuned them out, caught in his own reverie.

 

The year didn’t start out so great for any of them, but Dave wonders if he and Karkat really don’t have anything to be thankful for.

 

(the answer is no, they definitely do. They’ve got a buck-toothed idiot and a band and a myriad of siblings and cousins and friends between the three of them as proof of that.  It’s some crazy sappy shit that Dave wouldn’t be caught dead admitting aloud.  But he definitely appreciates it.)


End file.
